


Measured Precaution

by dango96



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Death Threats, F/M, Falling In Love, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Overprotective Jeralt, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:54:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24475306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dango96/pseuds/dango96
Summary: "Jeralt's been protective of his baby girl since Day 1; every time someone dares look at her with even a hint of attraction, he shuts them down before Byleth even knows.It's worse in the monastery though; he can't keep an eye on her since he's being sent out on missions outside the monastery, and for some reason every one and their mother's falling head over heels for his daughter. He's had to burn many a love letter and threaten an unholy number of brats (and even some of the staff!)He can't handle this any longer.(no incest please, just an overprotective father who's already lost his wife and doesn't want anyone undeserving hurting or stealing the only family he has left haha)"In which Jeralt threatens a man with suspicious intentions, and is more than a little overprotective of his only daughter.UPDATE TO AN UPDATE: Now with a third (and likely final) chapter!
Relationships: Jeralt Reus Eisner & My Unit | Byleth, My Unit | Byleth/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 29
Kudos: 235
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	1. Measured Precaution

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the [Three Houses Kink Meme](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/).

Jeralt has had it up to _here_ with this damn school.

He'd thought that working for Rhea again would be the worst of it. Her quiet manipulation, her sickeningly sweet smile, the way she looks at Byleth like she's some sort of second coming of the Goddess. He can't get a read on her at all, and it makes him nervous.

But no.

Somehow, he hadn't anticipated that a school full of teenagers - especially a monastery, run by the Church - would be so _god damn horny_.

He sighs irritably as he tears up yet another love letter. This one hadn't even bothered to perfume the envelope or go for cloying metaphors, like noble brats are so fond of. They'd just straight asked his baby for a roll in the hay, no pretenses.

Really, do today's kids have _any_ concept of romance or courting, beyond what's asked of them by noble obligations? Back in his day, he'd pressed flowers for Sitri. Pressed _flowers!_ Jeralt hadn't even known _how_ to press flowers, had to spend three hours in the library getting it right.

Has he seen any evidence of devotion that pure to dear, sweet Byleth? No, he hasn't.

He'd shut down Sylvain from day one, and continued to shut him down, because the brat won't take no for an answer. Claude's flirtations? He wasn't having it. Dorothea's winks and tea proposals - he'd seen that coming from a mile away. Stern talking-tos cleared most of them up.

But the letters keep coming, and it seems like everyone wants a piece of his little girl. He won't let them have it. Not after what this damn place did to Sitri. He won't see it hurt Byleth, too.

Jeralt's anger hits a fever pitch when he catches Byleth's door opening, the edge of a student's silhouette disappearing behind it. He cracks his knuckles, marching towards the door, catching the handle right as it's about to close.

Flinging the door open, he finds none other than Hubert standing there, the color rapidly draining from his face, an unmarked envelope in his gloved hands. Jeralt's eyebrows quirk - despite Byleth being the head of the Black Eagles, he hadn't pegged Hubert as the kind to go after her. Guy seemed too busy being glued to that Hresvelg girl by the hip.

But he doesn't let it dissuade him, snatching the letter out of Hubert's hands before he can react, straightening up to his full height and looming over him. The boy's got a few inches of height on him, but he's a scrawny mage, and Jeralt massively outsizes him by bulk alone.

"Another fucking love letter," Jeralt growls. "When will you brats learn to leave her alone?"

It's the first time he's seen Hubert sweat, visibly bristling and trying to steel himself against this display of intimidation. To his credit, he does a pretty good job. "I- believe you've gravely mistaken my intentions, Jeralt-"

"That's _captain_ to you, boy."

" _Captain_ Jeralt," Hubert corrects himself, and oh, Jeralt does not like the sarcasm dripping off of his words one bit. "I have no intention of courting your daughter."

"Which is why you're standing in her bedroom," Jeralt drawls, letting his voice drop to a dangerous husk, drawing his face in closer. "Holding a letter. What else would you be doing, kid? _Delivering her mail?_ "

Hubert purses his lips, but doesn't look away from Jeralt's penetrating gaze. Instead, he tries to slowly, subtly inch towards the door.

"No answer, huh?" Jeralt sighs. He moves out of the way, but doesn't stop glaring. "That's what I thought. Get the hell out, and don't let me catch you in here again."

"Of course," Hubert mutters, bowing curtly. And then he is gone, quick as a shadow, slipping through the door with unnervingly silent footsteps.

Jeralt shudders. Damn kid gives him the creeps.

Now that he's alone, he looks down at the envelope in his hands. He'd been awfully tight-lipped about its contents. Poetry, probably. They're always embarrassed about the poetry. He can't wager a guess at what Hubert's poetry would look like, but there's one way to find out.

Shrugging his shoulders, he grabs the hunting knife from his belt, tearing the envelope open. A surprisingly small letter slips out, and he unfolds it.

The first thing to catch his attention is that the message isn't _written_. The contents seem to be made of - letters carefully cut out of paper from other sources, in varying sizes and styles, arranged to make entirely new sentences. It's the strangest thing he's ever seen. What is this, a demented art project?

But then he reads the actual contents of the letter. Brief, clipped, and _definitely_ not poetry.

_St **a** Y A **w** aY FrOm Ed **e** LGa **R** d_

_oR Y **o** Ur **N** ext Br **e** At **h** Ma **Y** be YoU **r** La **s** T._

Jeralt scratches his head in utter confusion. What the hell? Did this brat send her a _death threat_? Is this supposed to impress her? That beanpole of a magus _really_ thinks he could win against the Ashen Demon in a fight?

He sighs, tearing up the letter like the rest. Kids these days really have no damn idea how to court each other.

-

The next morning, he meets Byleth for tea. It's not his preferred beverage, but he's not about to take his baby girl to a tavern. Not yet.

He gets the impression she doesn't care that much for the beverage, either. But she's certainly gotten good at making it, elegantly pouring out the contents of a silver teapot into each of their cups. Must've learned it from one of her students.

Well. It's good she's making friends.

The entire thing feels unnecessarily fancy, the way they sit in chairs that are too small, surrounded by well-manicured bushes. He's used to passing a flask of water back and forth over a campfire, not sipping from tiny pieces of china. But it's as good an excuse as any to talk to her, find out what's going on in her life.

"Hey, By." He lifts the cup, takes a sip. Burns as it goes down, but it's not a bad flavor. Heavily-steeped cinnamon - it's not a bad guess at his tastes, and he appreciates the thought. "You, uh... you got your eye on any boys?"

"What do you mean?" She replies, expression as impassive as ever as she settles back into her chair to drink her own tea. He's gotten accustomed to how stoic she appears - you have to look for the little things, the tiny bits of emotion in her actions, like the way she recoils slightly from her too-hot teacup, blowing on it in cute little puffs.

Jeralt's lips quirk in a small smile. God, he would die for his daughter. She's an odd duck, but he loves her so, so much. That's why he has to ask questions like these.

"I mean, there's a lot of eligible bachelors in this school. Lot of kids trying to set themselves up with each other." His voice takes on a teasing edge. "Anyone I need to keep an eye out for?"

"Oh," Byleth murmurs, looking down into her teacup as if it might give her the answer to his question. "I guess I haven't really thought about it."

His heart swells with relief, at first. She's never been one to seek out romance on her own, as far as he can tell. But then her eyes lift, gazing into the distance with a far-off look, like she's thinking about something.

"Well," she says slowly. "I guess... I think Hubert is cute."

Jeralt sinks heavily into his chair, sighing deeply, as Byleth tilts her head in confusion.


	2. Measured Proaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jeralt starts to think Hubert isn't so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun with this that I couldn't resist writing another chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Jeralt is beginning to think he’s been going about this whole thing all wrong.

Ever since the conversation with Byleth about her interests in men, he’s been wondering if, maybe, the right approach wasn’t to dissuade _every_ suitor. His daughter will inevitably find someone to be interested in, as most daughters do.

Perhaps, instead of trying to prevent her from ending up with someone, he needs to make sure she ends up with someone _right_.

That means someone who will treat her well - preferably somebody with money enough that she never has to worry about meals on her plate, but not one of those spoiled noble brats that will force her to attend court and pop out babies until one has a Crest. Someone who’s smart, and capable, and won’t take her for granted.

He can already rule out most of the people who’ve sent her letters or expressed interest based on that criteria. But from the remaining pool, the logical conclusion is, of course, to start with the only one Byleth has expressed interest in so far.

_Hubert._

Well. There’s no accounting for taste, he supposes.

So if his daughter has a _thing_ for a boy with no eyebrows, then… as long as he’s a good enough guy to make up for it, he’ll allow it.

Probably.

The library tells him well enough what he needs to know: House Vestra has served House Hresvelg for centuries. No lands of their own, but close enough to the Emperor to not have to worry about cash flow. No known family crest, and no desire to have one. Working behind the scenes, rather than playing petty nobleman games to try and stake claims over territories and expand their own power.

As far as snotty noble families go, it’s not a bad deal. All the benefits, without most of the drawbacks or obligations.

It’s not like he wants By to get tangled up in imperial politics to begin with - it’s something he’s kept away from for a long time, partly due to their connections to the Church of Seiros. But the Church and the Empire have been growing apart for a long time, and it’s not the worst side to be on.

And loyalty - well. The guy oozes it from every pore. He follows the Hresvelg heir apparent around like a dog, no matter how the other brats insult him for it. If he treats his job like that, he can only imagine he’d treat a wife with the same respect.

Jeralt’s eyebrows quirk as he comes across one passage in particular, directly implying that the family is known for doing the Emperor’s dirty work. Assassinations, bribes, deals… does he really want Byleth to get involved in that?

On the other hand, that means this kid probably knows how to defend himself. Knows how to defend _her_. Knows how to keep a family safe. Not that she needs defending, but two swords are better than one. And if there was corruption in the Empire’s ranks, she’d be the first to know about it...

For what feels like hours, he pores over documents, trying to find some kind of solid indication that Hubert would be anything less than an optimal choice. He looks into some of the other noble families, checks his notes about the commoners, but they all come up with lower marks. Hell, he’s even about the same age as her, to boot.

Eventually, Jeralt goes so far as to sneak into Seteth’s office, peeking into the dossiers on the students he knows the man keeps, and he is angrily shooed out once caught - only to have Seteth soften unexpectedly when he explains that he’s just trying to keep his daughter safe.

“Hubert?” Seteth murmurs, a hand under his chin. “Well, I can’t say I’m fond of how his appearance frightens the other students, but I haven’t had any complaints, unlike some of the others… He rather keeps to himself, but he has excellent academic prowess.”

Jeralt groans, running a hand through his hair.

-

“I’m not sure I understand,” Hubert says, looking at the open flask being offered to him with a heavy measure of distrust. “Are you asking me to drink with you?”

It’s evening. Just after the dining hall had cleared out, he’d found the perfect opportunity to steal Hubert - Edelgard had dismissed him while she went to help a classmate, and Jeralt had stepped in, asking to speak with him privately in the gardens. There’s barely anyone in them this time of night, the tea tables all vacated for fear of mosquitoes.

“Why not? You’re of age.” Jeralt brandishes the flask a little more. “Makes it a bit easier to talk to a guy. What, you afraid it’s poisoned?”

Hubert’s nose wrinkles. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“You saw me drink from it already.”

Jeralt watches as Hubert crosses his arms across his chest stiffly like he’s been offended, straightening his back. Kid’s got guts, he can admit that much.

“Drinking from a beverage hardly means anything,” Hubert points out, “if it’s a poison you’ve built up a tolerance to and I haven’t.”

With a husky laugh, Jeralt finally rescinds his offer, drawing the flask back to take a long swig. He screws the cap back on, ties it back onto his belt. “You really do know your stuff, don’t you, kid?”

“But of course. House Vestra is-”

“A bunch of spymasters and assassins, yeah.” He leans back in his too-small teatime chair. “I read about it already.”

Hubert’s expression sours further, a measured amount of trepidation showing through. “What, might I ask, is the purpose of this conversation?”

Jeralt thinks back to their talk in Byleth’s bedroom, and supposes he can’t blame the guy for being nervous.

“Listen, I’m not here to intimidate you again,” he sighs. “I just feel like… we got off on the wrong foot, the other day.”

It is, admittedly, rather satisfying to watch the irritation on Hubert’s face melt into confusion. “Excuse me?”

“You know, your weird love letter. To my daughter. I was thinking about it-” Jeralt waves a hand, trying to articulate the complex mess of feelings he has into words someone else can comprehend. “I just wanna protect her. But she’s a big girl now, and… she’s gonna date a guy eventually. Or- a girl, I guess. Or whatever else. So, might as well be a good one, you understand what I’m saying?”

Judging by the utterly dumbfounded look on Hubert’s face, and the way his lips are working but not producing any sounds, he is, in fact, struggling to understand what Jeralt is saying. But Jeralt continues, regardless.

“You seem like a good enough guy, Hubert.” Jeralt gets up out of his chair. Lets a fatherly hand fall on the boy’s shoulder, feeling him stiffen significantly under the touch. “And I know By likes you, too. So if you want to date my daughter, I’m giving you the chance.”

“I-” Hubert finally regains his power of speech, spluttering. “You- she- I’m not- my intentions were not to-”

He laughs, a loud, rough-voiced thing, claps his shoulder hard enough to shake him in his chair. “You don’t have to hide it anymore, kid, you’ve got my blessing here. Listen - I want you to meet her here tomorrow, 11 in the morning sharp, for tea.”

Hubert’s voice climbs up an octave. “But-”

“ _Don’t_ be late,” he growls, letting a bit of sharpness leak into his voice. “I’ll tell her to expect you at that time. You bring the tea.”

“I don’t even like tea-”

“Neither does she,” Jeralt waves his hand, starting to walk away. “Remember, 11 sharp.”

He stops a few paces away, turns his head to look over his shoulder. Hubert is pale in his seat, looking for all the world like he doesn’t understand _anything_ that just transpired.

“Oh,” Jeralt adds, gesturing to his own eye on the side where Hubert’s bangs fall, “and you might wanna comb your hair.”

-

Later that evening, Edelgard returns from assisting Petra, and she seeks out her vassal - it doesn’t take long to find his whereabouts, discovering him not far from where they’d parted, in the gardens. But her pace stutters when she sees Hubert sitting motionless in a chair, and she frowns as she briskly walks closer.

“Hubert? Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

Hubert does not meet her eyes, his hand fisted in his hair, staring ahead as if he’s still trying to figure it out himself.

“Did something happen?” Edelgard’s voice drops in volume, grows softer. “Did Captain Jeralt say something to you? Did he threaten me?”

Finally, Hubert looks up at her, his expression somewhere between grim and dumbfounded. She has rarely seen him at such a loss for words.

“No, Lady Edelgard, I…” He breathes in, steadying himself. “I believe I have a date tomorrow with our Professor.”

Edelgard blinks rapidly in confusion, tipping her head slightly to the side.

“I’m sorry, what?”


	3. Measured Indulgence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hubert and Byleth go on a date, one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the last one, because I can't resist a happy (sappy) ending. Less humor and more fluff this time. Please enjoy!

“So let me see if I’m understanding this correctly.”

Hubert lifts his head from where he’d been resting it on his desk. They’d traded the gardens for his bedroom, a much more private location to have this conversation.

“You’re saying that Captain Jeralt is under the impression you’re attracted to his daughter. Which is to say, our teacher.” Edelgard frowns, her hand rubbing her chin. “And he set you two up on a _date?_ ”

“That would appear to be the case, Lady Edelgard,” Hubert sighs.

A thoughtful pause passes between them, Edelgard shifting her weight where she sits on Hubert’s bed for lack of a second chair.

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

Hubert stiffens in his seat. “Excuse me?”

“Well,” she begins, twirling her silvery hair around one gloved finger, “she _is_ one of the most eligible bachelorettes in our school…”

“I hardly have time for romantic dalliances. You, of all people, should know that.”

Edelgard’s lips curve upward, and Hubert is very certain he already doesn’t like the thoughts behind that expression.

“Don’t you?” She gets up, rounding the desk, looking at him with something like sympathy. “Hubert, this is our last chance to act like teenagers. Don’t you deserve to have a little fun?”

“I don’t see the point,” Hubert replies coldly, and she notices that while his face is purposely turned away from her, it does little to hide the blush crawling up his cheeks. “This entire thing is a farce. I don’t even…”

“You don’t even what?”

“I don’t even... _like_ her,” he grumbles quietly.

The urge to tease him overtakes her, and she smiles cheekily as she leans against the corner of his desk. “You’re not allowed to lie to your future emperor, Hubert.”

Hubert shoots her a withering look, borderline sulking. There’s no hiding the blush on his cheeks now.

“If you must, think of it this way.” Edelgard’s expression softens, her violet eyes kind. “Our teacher is a valuable ally. It’s as much an opportunity to gather information about her as it is to sway her to our side.”

At the very least, Hubert can begrudgingly acknowledge the benefits of reconnaissance, if nothing else. He huffs, shoulders sinking in resignation.

“I don’t even know what to wear to a date.”

His emperor-to-be brightens beside him. “Perhaps we could ask Dorothea?”

“ _Absolutely not._ ”

-

At approximately 5 minutes before the hour, Hubert arrives at the tea table Jeralt had cornered him at last night. He comes dressed in the students’ provided evening wear, and carries with him a pair of coffee cups, as well as a pot of freshly brewed coffee.

He is surprised to find Byleth already waiting there, hands folded neatly in her lap. She looks up at him as he approaches, and the intensity of her gaze nearly causes him to drop the cups - as well as the fact that she’s wearing, rather than her mercenary outfit, one of the students’ outfits.

 _Where did she even_ get _that?_

Hubert stubbornly forces his gaze downward, trying not to think about how short her skirt is, or the way his eyes want to wander to the exposed skin between it and her knee highs. He curses the heat building in his cheeks, curses his body’s indiscretions in the face of rationality, and sits down across from her, placing the pot of coffee between them like a barrier.

“Hello, Professor,” he greets her without looking up, keeping his voice cold and level as he pours them each a cup. “Your father informed me that you’re not a fan of tea. As it happens, I’m not particularly fond of it myself, so I thought you might prefer coffee.”

“Oh,” Byleth replies calmly in turn, her voice not betraying any emotion as she takes the offered cup, setting it down in front of her. The only difference in her neutral expression is the slightest glint of curiosity, peering into the dark brown liquid. “I’ve never had it before.”

“It’s an acquired taste, some say.” He folds his arms across his chest. “And difficult to obtain. Do try to savor it.”

An awkward silence passes between the two of them as they allow their beverages to cool slightly, pale steam billowing into the still air. Hubert finally lifts his head to study her features - only to find her doing the same, staring at him impassively, nigh-unblinkingly.

Without breaking their shared gaze, he lifts up the cup, taking a long sip. It is fresh, hot, brewed strong and dark - by his hand, to his tastes. He’d not accounted for the fact that someone new to coffee might find it overwhelming, but surely, the professor willing to eat anything in the dining hall no matter how pickled or sugared won’t find it too disagreeable.

Taking her cue from him, Byleth lifts her own cup, taking a swig in turn - and then lowers it quickly, her smooth face profoundly wrinkling up like a puppy who’d just licked a lemon. She briefly looks almost _offended_ , not at him but at the drink itself.

It’s disarmingly childish for a girl who has barely shown him, or anyone, any emotion at all. He can count on one hand the amount of times he’s seen her smile in front of their class, let alone scrunch up her nose and pucker her lips in such an expressive way.

And it _does_ something to him. Where he’d expected to feel annoyed, he feels nothing of the sort - instead, an odd flutter against his ribcage, like that of a butterfly trying to escape. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before.

Hubert _strongly_ dislikes it.

“Bitter, isn’t it?” He breaks the silence, forces himself to try and focus on something else. “I take it you’re not a fan, then.”

“I don’t hate it,” Byleth mumbles. “It’s just… so strong.”

“The purpose of the beverage is to heighten the senses, and keep you alert into the evening hours.”

Her eyes meet his again, her expression quickly melting back into something more neutral. “Is that why you like it?”

“Some use it for that purpose alone,” Hubert concedes. “Others, like myself, enjoy the taste and consider it an added bonus.”

Byleth makes a noise of acknowledgment, taking another tentative sip. To her credit, she doesn’t wrinkle her face quite so dramatically this time, only furrowing her eyebrows like she’s studying the flavor.

Another silence stretches on between them. Hubert finds himself thankful that they are largely alone in the gardens, unusual for this time of day. For a moment, he sees a bush rustle behind Byleth, but then it goes still - probably just a bird, perhaps a stray cat.

“How are your studies going, Hubert?”

“My studies?” Hubert chuckles, setting his cup down. “A rather dry subject for a date.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then - oh. So their professor is capable of blushing, as well. “So you agree it’s a date.”

“I wasn’t aware that was a matter of debate.”

Byleth frowns. “I know my father asked you to do this. I wasn’t sure if…”

“He did not give me much choice in the matter,” Hubert agrees. “But a date is what it is, regardless of the circumstance.”

The bush rustles again, and his eyes narrow. It takes a moment for his vision to hone in on it, but then he makes it out - a pair of eyes peeking out from the foliage.

His voice takes on a sharp edge. “Is someone there?”

Byleth turns to look, following his gaze - and once she sees it, she jumps out of her chair, unsheathing the Sword of the Creator from her belt without hesitation. He hadn’t noticed she was carrying it, and his admiration for her grows. Even in a girlish ensemble and sitting down for a romantic date, she’d brought her most powerful weapon.

Hubert can appreciate the shrewdness of a woman who always comes prepared. As for himself, he has three blades on his body, each concealed in a different strategic location, as well as a potent sedative in a hand-stitched pocket on the inside of his jacket.

The bushes rustle further, and out comes Jeralt with his hands held up in a display of surrender, a few twigs and leaves caught in his clothes. At roughly the same time, none other than Edelgard emerges from a different bush, looking particularly sheepish.

They glance at each other in confusion, as if each had hidden separately in a bush without knowledge of the other. But before either of them can say anything, a third bush shakes with a squeal, and Bernadetta sticks her head out, nearly in tears. “Ahhhh- I’m sorry- I just saw the professor in the school uniform and I wanted to know what was going on I didn’t mean to spy on you pleasedon’thurtme!!!!!”

Hubert sighs, shaking his head with a tsk. Of course he should have anticipated they wouldn’t have any privacy. He could easily forgive his lady’s concern. The other miscreants, not so much.

A shame to waste a perfectly good pot of coffee, but he sees little other choice in the matter.

“Professor, would you care to join me in the market?” Hubert extends his gloved hand to her in a practiced motion. “Away from our _interlopers_?”

Byleth looks at him in surprise as she returns her sword to her belt, casting one last glance behind her at their spectators.

But then she smiles, so subtly that you could miss it if you weren’t paying attention, taking his hand - and Hubert’s stomach does a somersault at the feeling of her palm slotting into place against his, unexpectedly small and warm for a hardened mercenary.

\--

To Hubert’s relief, they aren’t being followed, as far as he can tell. He occasionally casts a glance over his shoulder to check, but he has trained enough to keep an eye out for assassins, far more subtle in their advances than concerned fathers or well-meaning friends.

Garreg Mach’s markets are always bustling on off days, full of souvenirs and trinkets marketed towards students and tourists. None of them particularly catch his eye, but Byleth keeps looking around with marked curiosity.

Has she never been to a place like this? Surely, she’d traveled to many places in her journeys. Did her father purposely keep her away from larger cities?

“See anything you like?”

Byleth looks up at him in surprise, her pace faltering.

“From the stalls.” Hubert clears his throat. “To my understanding, it is… customary for a man to treat a woman, monetarily, on a date.”

“Oh,” Byleth murmurs, looking around with her eyes slightly wider, like a child in a candy store suddenly overwhelmed with options. “Well…”

He nearly trips as Byleth grabs his hand without warning, pulling him through the crowds and weaving through them until they arrive at the side of the road.

He’d expected her to be captivated by the brightly-colored souvenirs, the stalls done up elaborately to beckon in more customers for overpriced merchandise. But instead, she stops in front of a rather plain-looking stall full of weapons, polished steel blades of all shapes and sizes. Only then does she let go of him, her hands moving to hover over the array of sharpened implements.

The shopkeeper is an older man, his greying beard clipped short and a blacksmith’s apron around his waist. He looks at Hubert briefly, then at Byleth, raising his eyebrows in surprise at the girl in a short skirt and a cute pink headband gazing lovingly at his inventory.

“You can pick them up if you want, lass. Just be careful not to-”

Without hesitation, Byleth picks up an axe from the middle of the pile, hands quickly finding the right position on its handle as she gives it an upward swing. Hubert steps back, making sure he’s more than clear of the weapon’s path, watching her weigh the weapon in her hands with something like joy sparkling in her eyes, despite the impassive line of her mouth.

That’s what this is reminding him of, he realizes.

Young Edelgard, barely 5, swinging the heaviest stick she could find at her siblings. Then an older, more embittered Edelgard, with an expression full of gratitude - for her 13th birthday, Hubert had gifted her with an axe large enough to be intimidating but still light enough for her to easily carry.

And Edelgard, at 16, skipping out on etiquette lessons to practice fighting with the imperial guard, her expression fierce but her eyes burning with life.

Byleth has a less burdened heart than Edelgard, that much is apparent - after all, few could ever compare to the darkness his lady has been forced to shoulder. But regardless, he can see that there is something inside of his teacher, holding her back from displaying her full range of emotions.

For the first time, he feels compelled to puzzle it out - not for the sake of making sure she isn’t dangerous, but for a different reason. A reason he can’t seem to articulate.

“Wootz Steel,” Byleth whispers reverently, breaking him out of his train of thought. “Light enough to move quickly, strong enough to not bend or break against armor.”

“You have a fine eye,” says the man across the counter. “Would you like to buy that piece?”

“I’ll pay for it,” Hubert interjects, stepping in front of her and pulling out his coins.

It costs more than he’d expected to pay for a souvenir, but it’s worth it, he tells himself - not for the way her eyes light up, of course. Nor for the way she keeps cradling the weapon like something precious, examining it from every angle. It’s a weapon she will surely use on their excursions, and thus an investment in the safety of their class.

An excellent purchase, from a purely practical perspective, and nothing else.

They wander aimlessly along the stalls on the same side of the road, until eventually Byleth stops at one selling various imported goods. He recognizes Dagdan tomatoes, white verona, smoked Duscur bear meat. They’re ingredients he recalls seeing in the Imperial kitchens, and only rarely in the Garreg Mach ones, typically reserved for special feasts.

Before he knows it, Byleth has bought something, handing gold off to the grocer. She tugs his sleeve to get his attention over the din of the crowd, then holds it up - a bag of coffee beans.

Hubert takes it in his hands, feeling almost in a stupor as he does. It is rare that he is ever given gifts, let alone by anyone other than Edelgard, who insists on giving him something on his birthday each year despite his request that she not waste her time or money. Despite her ignorance on the subject, the beans appear to be legitimate, and high quality - a quick sniff of the contents assures him of such.

“Thank you,” he utters softly, the sincerity a heavy and foreign weight on his tongue.

Byleth smiles in return, small but genuine.

\--

They stop for lunch at a small eatery, and before they know it, it’s approaching 4 in the afternoon. Merchants are packing up for the day, emptying their stalls and loading up their horses, and the streets are far less congested.

If they are not back by evening, it will raise alarms - less for Hubert, more for Byleth, a teacher whose duties extend beyond teaching on weekdays. So they begin their trek back through the sprawling town beneath the monastery, walking side by side.

It occurs to him that to the townsfolk and merchants, Byleth looks like just another student, unrecognized by anyone as the Ashen Demon, or the most-beloved professor at Garreg Mach Monastery. And - as Byleth looks like a normal girl, so, too, must they appear to be a couple to the average onlooker.

Something about that feels strange, almost exciting in its unfamiliarity. Would it be so terrible after all, to have a youthful dalliance? There’s still the matter of her technically being his teacher, but -

“Come with me,” Byleth says suddenly, grasping his hand in her own - and before he has a chance to register what she’s saying, he finds himself yanked into a nearby alleyway.

She pushes him up against a wall, her hands coming to rest on either side of him, pinning him there as she stares into his eyes with a fierce, penetrating gaze. Here, they are isolated from witnesses - and alarm bells start to ring in Hubert’s head, chastising him for letting his guard down, for allowing himself to relax, however briefly.

Every friend is a potential enemy, a lurking threat to Her Majesty, and this is no exception.

Before he can formulate a strategy - the dagger hidden against his wrist stabbed into the meat of her hip, or a burst of Miasma to incapacitate her long enough to slip away, or Thoron to forcibly disarm - she takes a step closer, gets onto the tips of her toes to prop herself up higher. It is only now that he registers how much shorter she is, having nearly an entire foot in height on her.

And it takes her closing her eyes, puckering her lips slightly, for him to figure out what she’s trying to accomplish. The tension drains from his body, only to be replaced with a different brand of anxiety.

_A kiss. She’s asking for a kiss._

His lips part, hanging open slightly, at a loss for how to react.

Hubert has never kissed anyone. As far as Vestra family secrets go, kissing has never been on the list of necessary skills to learn. Certainly, skills of seduction go a long way in certain matters of subterfuge, but with his looks, he’s never put much stock into them.

The question passes his mind. Does he _want_ to kiss her? He’d been content to spend time with her up until this point, but the shock of thinking she’d been trying to kill him puts things into perspective. To allow himself this vulnerability is a danger. Not just to himself, but to the Empire.

And yet. Lady Edelgard herself had urged him to do this, had considered it a benefit rather than a detriment.

And he will admit to himself this moment of weakness - that she is beautiful, especially with the light of the setting sun filtering in, making her skin glow and her lips glisten. Though he had been uncertain of his own feelings at the start of this, he will concede that something has begun to grow inside of him. Something fragile and tender, proving that behind his cold and thorny exterior, the heart of a man still remains, with its own desires and needs.

Time will tell if it survives, especially when they are about to start a war in a few short months. But for now, he allows himself to lean down, bridging the gap between their faces, feeling himself tremble slightly as their lips brush together.

It is - wet. Strange, and in some ways uncomfortable. Clumsy. As far as he can tell, Byleth has an equal level of experience: which is to say, none.

But they twist and turn and discover an angle that works, their mouths slotting perfectly together, sharing this silent moment. Not as the Empire’s dagger in the night or the mysterious heir to the Sword of the Creator, but merely as a boy and a girl, awkwardly clutching each other close.

By the time they draw back from each other, his heart is racing, thrumming against the walls of his chest. He feels anxious, light-headed, _alive_.

When Byleth’s eyes flutter open once more, it’s with lips that are flushed pink, a color that matches the light dusting of red on her cheeks. She smiles that subdued little smile at him, and it stirs feelings in him so unfamiliar that he can’t begin to name them.

“Thank you for a nice time,” Byleth whispers. “I had fun today.”

He inhales, then exhales. His mind empties of thoughts, fixating on the way her small hands are still gently clutched in the fabric of his shirt.

“Yes,” Hubert replies breathlessly. “I enjoyed myself, as well.”

He hardly gets any sleep that night, and for once, it isn’t due to coffee.

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider leaving a comment if you enjoyed my work, it means a lot!


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